


Introductions

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Once more, from the top [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, POV Foxglove (Rivers of London)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25444927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: "I think I must accustom Molly to the idea of this... development.  Which reminds me, you should come over for tea soon."Nightingale takes Seawoll home to meet his family.  That is, Molly.(Molly's sister is less than interested, it has to be said.)
Relationships: Molly & Foxglove, Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Series: Once more, from the top [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702759
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Introductions

She sat, cross-legged, against the wall in a dim corner of the atrium, watching the motes dance and swirl in the shaft of early May light pushing through the iron and glass dome. She put her head to one side and squinted. Time slowed obligingly for her as she focused on one particular speck, trying to determine if there was any discernible pattern to its movement or that of its fellows.

In the gloomy recesses of the room, a draught chased the side of her neck, and she twitched, giving a sudden shiver, and pulled the rough tweed of one of the Nightingale’s old hacking jackets closer around herself. She wore it over a pair of running shorts that the apprentice had left behind once in the gym and a t-shirt with a picture of a dissatisfied-looking blonde woman that the younger apprentice had given to her. Her sketchpad lay on the floor beside her, but she had become too entranced by the ever-changing revolution of the air to yet pick it up. 

At some point she registered her sister about her business in the centre of the room, fussing around the cluster of chairs placed under the dome, but she paid her little heed, and she soon whisked away again towards the kitchen. This happened two or three more times. It occurred to her vaguely that something was afoot, but as she hadn’t been shooed away, and her sister obviously knew exactly where she sat, she afforded the matter less than a flicker of interest.

Time passed, she had no idea how long, when a new and unusual noise was heard. She turned her head to listen. She realised it was the noise of the bell at the front door as it pealed once more. She wrinkled her brow. Unexpected incursion from the outside world wasn’t anything she or her sister welcomed, but she believed they were safe enough inside the house of the wizards. Her sister was, unusually, nowhere to be seen, and she watched incuriously as it was the Nightingale who descended the stairs at an unusually swift pace and crossed to the front door, opening it himself to reveal a large man on the threshold, whom she recognised as having visited the Folly previously.

The snap of tension in her shoulders - the one that she hadn’t realised was there as she had waited for the door to open - relaxed and she turned her attention back to the air. 

But not for long, as prolonged shuffling and muttering at the front entrance between the Nightingale and the large man drew her gaze once more. She saw then that the large man was holding flowers, which was curious in itself - as not something she had known him do before - but it was nothing to her interest in the flowers themselves. She craned her head forward to get a better look at them and let out a small hiss of annoyance as the Nightingale blocked her view by standing in front of the large man to adjust the neck tie he was wearing.

She felt her sister approach from the back stairs and saw her cross towards the centre of the atrium bearing the square gold-trimmed teapot, now steaming slightly, as the men settled themselves with one last murmured exchange. She watched her sister stand demurely by the tea table, now replete she noted, as the Nightingale and the large man moved towards the middle of the room. She got a better look at the flowers as they came closer and saw that the large man was in fact holding two separately tied arrangements in one hand. She raised herself into a crouch.

‘Hello Molly,’ the large man was saying, offering one of the bunches of flowers to her sister. ‘These are for you, and these are for-’

With lightning speed she shot up from her place in the corner to stand next to her sister.

‘Oh. Hello, um, Foxglove,’ said the large man, starting slightly at her sudden appearance. He was nervous. She could tell. Absently, she wondered why. ‘These are for you.’ He held out to her a bouquet of spiked foliage and angular blooms, architectural almost in composition, and very different to the posy of English cottage garden flowers he had handed to her sister. She took the flowers from him, with an offhand gesture of thanks, and immediately placed them on one of the occasional tables nearby. She began to turn them, this way and that, to see how the light caught the shapes of the leaves and petals and how the shadows they cast shifted and morphed as she rotated the bouquet in fascination. As she did so, she felt, as part of herself, the surprise and gratitude emanating from her sister in response to her gift. 

She was pulled back to her surroundings by the sound of her name. The men had sat down and her sister had served them tea, though she remained standing resolutely upright.

‘... would you and Foxglove care to join us?’ the Nightingale had said.

She frowned as she turned back to the group. She and her sister did not take tea with the men, her sister had been very clear about that. But as she looked over at them, she detected an entreaty in the grey eyes of the Nightingale. She was about to take a step towards the table, but was halted by an imperceptible shake of the head from her sister, a movement so tiny as to be unseen by any but their own kind. They remained still, and a silence descended on the group. Losing interest once more in the matters of men, she felt her attention pulled back towards the flowers.

She heard the Nightingale clear his throat. ‘As you wish, of course, Molly. But I particularly wanted you to be aware that I have invited Inspector Seawoll - Alex, that is - here today on a, er, shall we say, social visit. Rather than on police business, I mean.’ 

She felt her sister’s interest quicken, but hers did not. She stole a look at her bouquet. Her fingers itched for the pencils and the sketchpad which she had abandoned in the corner of the room. Released from the notice of the men, whose attention was now directed solely at her sister, she turned and moved away silently. She gathered her drawing materials from where she had left them and unobtrusively moved the table on which her flowers lay to a more opportune position in the afternoon sunlight. She found a footstool to sit on and once she had placed it minutely to her satisfaction, she sat down to draw. She noted out of the corner of her eye that her sister had somehow been induced to take a seat herself and was perched on the very edge of one of the green leather armchairs facing the men, an untouched cup of tea before her, her hands in her lap. Surprising though that was, there was no anxiety or fear coming from her sister, only puzzlement giving way to a dawning understanding - nothing of any concern to her, and so she returned her focus entirely to her drawing.

When she had finished - and was uncommonly pleased with the result - she looked up. She saw that the men had gone, as had her sister, the tea things cleared away, and the chairs rearranged. She stood and stretched out her cramped limbs, and saw that the cool light from above was slowly beginning to fade as evening approached.


End file.
